“Jesus Christ, why does my hair have to be such a freaking mess?” She muttered the words almost under her breath, but my mother never missed a trick.
“Maureen Ann, I won’t have you talking the name of the Lord in vain, especially not on the day of your father’s funeral.”
Iona, standing by the door, rolled her eyes. “Because that’s the part of the commandment Moses forgot to include on the stone tablet. ‘Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain, particularly if you’re on the way to your father’s funeral’.”
Maureen cut her eyes to our oldest sister and unsuccessfully bit back a bark of laughter that ended in a half-sob. “Je-geez Louise, we’re making jokes about this. What’s wrong with us?”
“That’s a question I’ve been asking for many a year.” Mom shook her head.
“Nothing’s wrong with us.” Iona softened her words by reaching out to take our mother’s hand in hers. “If Daddy were here, he’d be worst of all. Remember Granny Bea’s memorial service? How much he made us kids giggle? You were so mad at him that day.”
Mom brought her fingers to her mouth, pressing them to her lips, and tears filled her eyes. “I was. Oh, God forgive me, I was. If I could go back . . .”
“Mom, come on.” Maureen pulled her into a tight hug. “Don’t. Daddy knew how much you loved him. And you’ve got to hold it together, woman. If you lose it today, Iona and Flynn and I have no chance.”
“Okay.” My mother sucked in a long, shaky breath. “We need to leave. Everyone’ll be coming, and we should be there.” She patted Reenie’s back and squeezed Iona’s hand, and I fought against feeling like an outsider. As if she felt my pain, Mom glanced at me. “Flynn, you all right?”
“Sure.” I stuck my hands in my pockets and jingled the keys. “I’ll drive.”
“Think you can remember how to get to the church?” Maureen poked me in the ribs.
“Does it matter? You’re going to tell me how to go anyway.”
“You’re not wrong.” My sister slid her arm through mine. “I know you’ve been gone a long time, but some things never change. Big sister always knows best.”
We were all quiet on the ride to church. My mind was a jumble of everything that had happened over the past few days: visits to the funeral home, meeting with the priest who was doing the service today . . . the endless drop-in company as my mother’s friends and my father’s colleagues brought by casseroles, and plates of cookies, cakes and pies. Apparently death made the surviving family hungry.
Iona must’ve been thinking along the same lines. From the back seat, she leaned forward. “Did anyone remember to ditch Mrs. Shulman’s tuna nastiness? I’d hate for it to be accidentally put out today with the other food.”
Maureen wrinkled her nose and made a gagging noise. “Yeah, that sucker went down the glippety-glop last night. And it was followed by a whole box of baking soda, because it stunk up the whole dam—dang kitchen. Sorry, Ma.”
My mother sighed. “She means well. They all mean well. Mrs. Schulman thinks all Catholics eat fish every Friday, so that’s why she made the tuna. Bless her heart.”
Iona snorted. “If the Pope had to eat that crap, he’d change the church laws, even about Fridays in Lent. Slow down, Flynn. The turn’s coming up.”
I bit back a retort. Yeah, I’d been away for a long time, but I’d been going to this church since I was born. I was pretty sure I knew the way.
“People are already here.” My mother stared out the window at the cars that lined the curb in front of the large gray stone church.
“Father Collins promised to keep them outside until we . . . had some time to get settled.” Maureen’s eyes slid away, and we were all silent as I parked the car in the back of the church. I opened the door for my mother, and together we made our way inside. I brought up the rear, as dread threatened to choke me.
The sanctuary was empty, save for the open casket in front of the altar. My mother came to an abrupt halt just inside the doors, her hand still poised over the holy water chrism.
“Mrs. Evans.” Mr. Hughes, the funeral director, hurried in from the door on the other side. “There’s quite a line outside the church, which is of course so gratifying . . . Mr. Evans must’ve been very well-loved.”
“He was.” Iona spoke softly. “Everyone loved Daddy.”
“We said a closed casket.” Mom moved again, crossing herself and stepping forward. “We were very clear. That’s what Brice wanted. He always said he didn’t want people gawking at him when he wasn’t there to stare back.”
“Of course, of course. We understand. But I thought perhaps before we opened the doors, we’d allow you a few moments alone. To say good-bye.”
“We already said our good-byes.” Mom stared down Mr. Hughes. He took a step back, and I pitied him for a minute; my mother had made many a lesser man cower with that look.
“Flynn hasn’t.” Maureen glanced at me. “He didn’t get to . . . well. He wasn’t at the hospital with us. Maybe he should have the chance.”
Mom raised her eyebrows at me. “Flynn? Would you like a moment with your father before they—close things up and people come in?”
I opened my mouth to say no. I knew it wasn’t him. I had no doubt my father was in the Great Beyond, sharing a cold one with St. Peter and cracking jokes with St. Patrick. But it struck me, in a painful, crushing blow, that this would be the last time I’d ever be able to see my dad’s face. That face that had grinned at me as he teased my mom during hundreds of family dinners, had offered me steadfast encouragement at each turning point in my life, had shone with pride nearly every day of my life . . . I was never going to see it again.
